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When tunesul Hylat, with melodious moan,

Taught rocks to weep, and made the mountains groan.

Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away!
To Delias ear the tender notes convey.
As some fad turtle his lost love deplores,
And with deep murmurs sills the sounding shores;
Thus, far from Delia, to the winds I mourn,
Alike unheard, unpity'd, and forlorn.

Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along!
For her, the seather'd quires neglect their song:
For her, the limes their pleasing shades deny;
For her, the lillies hang their heads and die.
Ye flow'rs, that droop, forfaken by the spring,
Ye birds, that left by summer cease to sing,
Ye trees that fade when autumn-heats remove,
Say, is not absence death to those who love?

Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away X
Curs'd be the sields that cause my Delia's stay:
Fade ev'ry blossom, wither ev'ry tree,
Die ev'ry flow'r, and perish all but she.
What have I faid? where'er my Delia flies,
Let spring attend, and sudden slow'rs arise;
Let opening roses knotted oaks adorn,
And liquid amber drop from ev'ry thorn.

Go, gentle gales, and. bear my sighs along!
The birds shall cease to tune their evening song,
The wind* to breathe, the waving woods to move,
And streams to murmur, ere I cease to love.
Not bubbling fountains to the. thirsty swain,
Not balmy sleep to lab'rers faint with pain,
Not show'rs to larks, or sun-shine to the bee,
Are half so charming as thy sight to me.

Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away!
Come, Delia, come; ah, why this long delay?
Thro' rocks and caves the name of Delia sounds i
Delia, each cave and echoing rock rebounds.
Ye pow'rs, what pleasing frenzy sooths my mind .'
Do lovers dream, or is my Delia kind?
She comes, my Delia comes !—now cease my lay,
And cease ye gales, to bear my sighs away!

Next Ægon sung, while Windsor groves admir'd:
Rehearse, ye muses, what yourselves inspir'd.

Resound ye hills, resound my mournsul strain (
Of perjur'd Doris, dying I complain:
Here where the mountains, less'ning as they rise,
Lose the low vales, and steal into the skies;
While lab'ring oxen, spent with toil and heat,
In their loose traces from the sield retreat;
While curling smoaks from village-tops are seen,
And the fleet shades glide o'er the dusky green.

Resound ye hills, resound my mournsul lay!
Beneath yon poplar oft we pass'd the day:
Oft on the rind I carv'd her am'rous vows,
While she with garlands hung the bending boughs:
The garlands fade, the boughs are worn away;
So dies her love, and so my hopes decay.

Resound, ye hills, resound my mournsul strain!
Now bright ArBurus glads the teeming grain;

Now golden fruits in loaded branches mine,
And gratesul clusters swell with floods of wine;
Now blushing berries paint the yellow grove:
Just Gods! shall all things yield returns but love?

Resound, ye hills, resound my mournsul lay \
The shepherds cry, "Thy flocks are left a prey." i
Ah! what avails it me the flocks to keep,
Who soft my heart, while I preserv'd my sheep,
Pan come, and ask'd, what magic caus'd my smart,
Or what ill eyes malignant glances dart?
What eyes but hers, alas! have pow'r to move f
And is there magic but what dwells in love?

Resound, ye hills, resound my mournsul strains! I'll fly from shepherds, flocks, and flow'ry plains. . From shepherds, flocks, and plains, I may remove, Forfake mankind, and all the world—but love I I know thee, love \ wild as the raging main, More fell than Tygers on the Libyan plain: Thou wert from Ætnas burning entrails torn, Got by sierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born.

Resound, ye hills, resound my mournsul lay I Farewel, ye woods, adieu the light of day! One leap from yonder clisf shall end my pains. No more, ye hills, no more resound my strains I

Thus sung the shepherds, till th'approach of night, The dies yet blushing with departing light,

When falling dews with spangles deck'd the glade,
And the low sun had lengthen'd ev'ry shade.

To these Pastorals, which are written agreeably to the taste of antiquity, and'the rules above prescrib'd, we shall beg leave to subjoin another that may be called a burlesque Pastoral, wherein the ingenious author, the late Mr. Gay, has ventur'd to deviate from the beaten road, and described the shepherds and ploughmen of our own time and country, instead of those of the Golden Age, to whic^ the modern critics consine the pastoral. His six Pastorals, which he calls the Shepherd's Week, are a beautisul and lively representation of the manners, customs, and notions of our rusticks. We shall insert the sirst of them, entitled, The Squabble, wherein two clowns try to out-do each other in singing the praises of their sweet-hearts, leaving it to a third to determine the controversy. The persons names are Lobbin Clout, Cuddy, and Cloddipole.

Lobbin Clout.
Thy younglings, Cuddy, are but just awake;
No throstles shrill the bramble bum forfake;
No chirping lark the welkin sheen * invokes;
No damsel yet the swelling udder strokes;
O'er yonder hill does scant $ the dawn appear;
Then why- does Cuddy leave his cott so rear f?


Ah Lobbin Clout! Iween J, my plight is guest;
For he that lows, a ft ranger is to rest.
If swains belye not, thou hast prov'd the smart,
And Blouxelindas mistress of thy heart.
This rising rear betokeneth well.thy mind;
Those arms are folded for thy Blouzelind.
And well, I trow, our piteous plights agree;
Thee Blouzelinda smites, Buxoma me.

Lobbin Clout.
Ah Blouzelind! I love thee more behalf,
Than deer their fawns, or cows the new-fall'n calf.

• Shining or bright iky.

§ Scarce.

f Early.

J Conceive.

Woe worth the tongue, may blisters sore it gall,
That names Buxoma, Blouzelind withal!

C U D D Y.

Hold, witless Lobbin Clout, I thee advise,test blisters fore on thy own tongue arise, Lo yonder Cloddipole, the blithsome swain, The wisest lout of all the neighb'ring plain?' From Cloddipole we learnt to read the skies, To know when hail will sall,- or winds arise. He taught us erst * the heiser's tail to view, When stuck aloft, that show'rs would straight ensue He sirst that useful secret did explain, That pricking corns foretold the gath'ring rain. When swallows fleet soar high and sport in air, He told us that the welkin would be clear. Let Cloddipole then hear us twain rehearse, And praise his sweet-heart in alternate verse. I'll wager this fame oaken staff- with thee, That Cloddipole shall give the prize to me.

Lobbin Clout.

See this tobacco pouch, that's lin'd with hair, Made of the skin of sleekest fallow deer: This pouch, that's ty'd with tape of reddest hue, I'll wager, that the prize shall be my due.


Begin thy carrols then, thou vaunting slouch; Be thine the oaken staff", or mine the pouch.

Lobbin Clout.

My Blouzalinda is the blithest lass,
Than primrose sweeter, or the clover grass.
Fair is the king-cup that in meadow blows,
Fair is the daisy that beside her grows;
Fair is the gilly-flow'r of gardens sweet,
Fair is the marygold, for pottage meet:
But Blouzelind's than gilly-flow'r more fair,
Than daisy, marygold, or king-cup rare.

* Formerly.


My brown Buxoma is the seated maid, That e'er at wake delightsome gambol play'd; Clean as young .lambkins, or the goose's down, And like the goldsinch in hersunday gown. The witless lamb may sport upon the plain, The frisking kid delight the gaping swain; The wanton calf may skip with many a bound, And my cur Tray play deftest * seats around: But neither lamb, nor kid, nor calf, nor Tray, Dance like Buxoma on the sirst of Maj.

L o B B i N Clout.

Sweet is my toil when Blouxalind is near;
Of her bereft, 'tis winter all the year.
With her no sultry summer's heat I know;
In winter, when she's nigh, with love I glow.
Come, Blouxalinda, ease thy swain's desire,
My summer's shadow, and my winter's sire!


As with Buxoma once I work'd at hay, E'en noon-tide labour seem'd an holiday; And holidays, if haply she were gone, Like worky-days I wiuYd would soon be done. Eftsoons +, O sweet-heart kind, my love repay, And all the year shall then be holiday.

Lobbin Clout.

As Bhuxalinda, in a gamesome mood,
Behind a hay-cock loudly laughing stood,
I slily ran, and snatch'd a hasty kiss;
She wip'd her lips, nor took it much amiss.
Believe me Cuddy, while I'm bold to fay,
Her breath was sweeter than the ripen'd hay,


As my Buxoma, in a morning fair,
With gentle singer stroak'd her milky care.

* Nimblest, f Very soon,

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